Get In The Car, Detective Inspector
by Cowbelle
Summary: Mycroft and Greg become friends after Sherlock starts showing up at crime scenes. Pre-John.
1. Chapter 1

"Get in the car, Detective Inspector," a smooth voice said before the call ended abruptly. A discreet black car pulled up, the door was opened by a man in white gloves, and to this day Greg has no idea what came over him, but without hesitation, he hid from the rain and climbed into the back seat.

Honestly, he'd been having the longest week of his life. His wife had left him again, Sam was fighting at school, an arrogant stranger in a coat had been showing up at his crime scenes, and now he'd been abducted. Greg sighed and let himself be carried away through the streets of the city, watching the rain fall on the windows. Who knew? Maybe he'd be dead by the morning and not have any of that shit to deal with. That might be nice. He'd always thought that death would be peaceful, his body decomposing, the atoms that made up his very being just scattering, becoming water, or soil, or rock, and sometimes on a more cheerful day, a star. Something…new, less problematic.

* * *

Earlier that week a young man in a big coat had swept into his crime scene, firing off texts and talking like there was no tomorrow. Greg had firmly told him that he needed to leave. The man had pulled himself up to his full height, fixed Greg with a withering stare, and stalked off muttering something about incompetent monkeys.

Greg thought that would be the end of it, that the man was just some pissed bastard with an inferiority complex and a heightened sense of his own intelligence. To be fair, Greg was completely right, although Sherlock had been high, not pissed. But oh no, the next day the man was back again. And again he'd been asked to leave. This time however, he'd stood his ground, after a while Greg had to ask that he was forcibly removed, which he was.

This carried on for the next three days, the man had been verbally abused by every scientist and detective at the scene, and once physically. Due to company policy, Anderson had been suspended from work for a month.

* * *

The car slipped through the city unnoticed, the driver avoided busy streets, favouring alleys and side streets, he kept to the shadows. Greg felt a growing sense of apprehension, feeling like the buildings around him were growing, criss-crossing over each other, forming a cage of brick and concrete. He'd never liked the dark, laugh all you want. Yes, he was a policeman who'd wrangled homicidal criminals, and he was afraid of the dark.

* * *

Mycroft watched from his office, picture the stereotypical villain, the sort that chuckles darkly and strokes innocent kittens in an entirely creepy manner, picture that minus the kitten. He was tracking the car's progress as it made its way across London, being as high up as he was in the government certainly had its perks. CCTV footage to name one, he'd seen many a drunken joke, sneaky shag in a darkened back street, and student prank, he'd particularly enjoyed the one with the mannequins. He may be important, but he liked a laugh as much as the next highly intelligent, high security government official.

He really did look like a Bond villain, he had the high back leather chair that he could spin around in, he was surrounded by screens, and he was surveying the whole of London from his current position. The only thing that destroyed the image was the Gregg's box on his desk, and the lack of a small fluffy creature to pet.

The car was nearing its destination. Mycroft heaved himself out of his seat, which took more effort than he'd care to admit. He'd start his diet tomorrow, right now he needed to have a nice little chat with a certain DI Gregory Lestrade.

* * *

Greg scowled as he got out of the car, what sort of criminal used Battersea Power Station as a hide out? Oh that's right, the sort who uses an umbrella like a cane, wears three piece suits, and sends sleek black cars to pick you up, so that you are the victim of the most comfortable kidnap in history.

The man turned around and Greg was struck with the very strange sensation that he knew him. Something about the way he held himself, confident and arrogant, but somehow concealed, like you wouldn't notice if you passed them in the street. The eyes as well, they were a perplexing mixture of blue and grey and green, and suddenly he had it. The crackpot who kept showing up at his crime scenes, this man was just the same.

"Hello Inspector," said the man with the same deep voice Greg had heard on the phone, "I trust you had a pleasant journey."

Greg was taken aback, "Uh…yeah."

The man smirked, "Quite. I'd like to talk to you about a Mr Sherlock Holmes. What do you know about the man?"

Greg stared up at the man, quite honestly they were very nice eyes, and he did look good in that suit. No. No this man had abducted him, you can't fancy your kidnapper. "Nothing, well almost nothing. He's…certainly eccentric."

"He is that," the man murmured, almost sadly, "I'd like you to let him into your crime scenes. He's destructive, to say the least, when he's bored, he needs the stimulation, and he can help."

"I'm sorry sir," Greg said, "I'm really not authorised to let complete strangers onto my crime scenes."  
"Oh I know that, Detective, but I am."

Greg just stood there, mouth slightly open, forehead creased.

"And who exactly are you?"

"An interested party," the man said, "a powerful one. Goodbye Detective Inspector. You'll be hearing from me very soon."

The man turned on his heel, and left. Greg was rooted to the spot, slack-jawed and more than a little attracted to the stranger.

A smartly dressed woman walked up behind him, "I'm to take you home," she said, not looking up from her phone.

"Right," Greg muttered, "New Scotland Yard in that case."

* * *

**Hallo, thanks for reading this, I hope it was vaguely enjoyable. I am entirely guilty of stealing a line or two of dialogue from A Study In Pink. x**


	2. Chapter 2

When Greg sloped into work on Monday morning, he was still one cup of tea away from functioning. That was probably why, when Sherlock Holmes appeared, all coat and cheekbones, Greg had just waved him on through.

"Mycroft got you didn't he?"

Greg looked confused, "Who?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Arrogant prat," Greg snorted but Sherlock continued, "Bit taller than me, apparently looks like me, wields an umbrella."

"Oh yeah. Yeah he did," Greg said, "I'm to let you onto my crime scenes apparently, so go on," Greg waved his hand at the body, "Do your worst."

Sherlock sniffed disdainfully but swept over to the body all the same.

It was then that Greg noticed the man from Friday night, Mycroft apparently, leaning on a dark car with tinted windows, watching Sherlock with mild interest. Greg's brow furrowed, God the man was attractive, but no. He still had to go.

"Hey!" Greg yelled, hoping he sound threatening enough, but as he neared the car, Mycroft looked up and his lips quirked up at the sight of an angry detective in the rain, and Greg melted.

An angry, handsome detective in the rain. Striding towards him. Mycroft's grin grew wider as he saw the anger on Greg's face fade away.

"Inspector," Mycroft said, "What can I do for you?"

"I…uh yeah. You can't be…here."

Mycroft began to laugh, and Greg scowled, damn him. "I assure you Inspector, I most certainly can."

Greg was put off, "Right," he said gruffly, "Good okay. Carry on then."

Greg was kicking himself as he walked away from the man, no. No he couldn't be here. He wasn't authorised. He turned to tell Mycroft to go home, to see the man standing just inches from him. Jesus he was tall.

"Inspector, I'd like to have a few more words with you. Not in a car park, or a power station. Does coffee suit?"

To be honest with you, Greg didn't like coffee, bloody hated the stuff, so he was surprised to hear himself grinning shyly and saying, "Yeah, yeah alright then."

"Excellent. Shall we?"

Mycroft turned on his heel, leaving Greg slightly confused and very far behind. Greg had to trot to keep up with the man, not that he minded particularly, he knew he looked idiotic but somehow anything was better than sitting in the rain with Sherlock bloody Holmes. He'd known the man a week and he was an insufferable git. Greg could only imagine growing up with him, so he cut Mycroft some slack.

* * *

After a short while Mycroft stopped at a small coffee shop, all squashy chairs and teenagers in thick-rimmed glasses. He looked down at Greg, clearly rather pleased with himself.

Oh and Mycroft _was _pleased. He'd managed to convince someone to come out for coffee with him. Without using his position or power to coerce them. Gosh, this hadn't happened since that man in 1998. It had been a while okay?

After a few seconds of standing outside the shop Greg had managed to snap Mycroft out of whatever he was thinking about, "Mr Holmes? Can we go in, it's wet." Yes. He knew how idiotic that had sounded, but if it got him a mug of tea, then it was more than worth it.

Once they were both seated, Mycroft with a large coffee and Greg with his almost-bucket of builder's tea, Mycroft turned to Greg.

"So Inspector-"  
"Greg, please."

"-Greg. I must warn you about my dear brother."

"Your brother?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes, were all detectives so dense these days?

"Yes, Sherlock. My brother. He's likely to be rude."  
"You don't say," Greg mumbled, Mycroft carried on regardless. A Holmes thing?

"Childish, stubborn," Mycroft hesitated, "and I must warn you that he is battling a cocaine problem. If you give him trouble for it I will make your life very difficult Gregory, but it is only fair to warn you of it."

Greg gaped, what had he gotten himself into?

But then Mycroft smiled, "Onto a lighter topic, yes?" Greg nodded mutely.

* * *

An hour later the two were still sitting in the café, politely discussing the pros and cons of the death penalty. Apparently this was a lighter topic. Greg sighed, to think he'd found the man sexy. Okay fine, he still did really. But the bloke needed to lighten up.

Mycroft was damn near ecstatic, although he kept his face politely indifferent, as a gentleman should. Gregory was certainly an attractive man. He, Mycroft Holmes, was sitting in a coffee shop with a potential partner.

A text from Anthea interrupted the conversation and Mycroft scowled down at his phone as Greg breathed a nearly concealed sigh of relief. The two men went their separate ways.

Greg swore that if he ever had to speak to the man again he was probably going to…Greg was terrible at threats. It wouldn't end well.

* * *

I've been mildly ill today, and this came out of it. Yep.


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft went to the club that night feeling very pleased with himself. He'd stuck to his diet, prevented a small war with New Zealand, don't ask, and had quite possibly found himself…well let's not get ahead of ourselves. Gregory was charming, attractive, and of average intelligence, but Mycroft didn't have the best dating history.

There had been that girl when he was nine who kissed him, stolen his hat and ridden away on his bicycle. Nothing had happened after that for eight years, when he left for university and a horribly charismatic young man had dated him for three weeks before admitting to having taken all of poor Mycroft's food from the fridge as his own and fleeing the country. That was pretty weird. After that Mycroft had been on a variety of dates with a variety of people, before his work had him far too pinned down for anything. He hadn't considered policemen though, a job like Greg's was a demanding one, Greg might understand his prolonged absences.

Mycroft pulled out the day's phone, security rules stated that he must change his phone daily, and due to the usual rules of silence he sent Greg a text.

_Gregory, _

_I should very much like to meet with you again. We have matters to discuss. Anthea will arrange everything. Don't bother replying to this. _

_-MH _

Yes. Yes he would see the man again.

* * *

That night, Greg was lying on his sofa, relishing a rare night off and watching Torchwood. Bad idea. The sexual tension between Jack and Ianto only reminded him of Mycroft Holmes in a not unpleasant, but still not welcome manner. Jesus. When had this happened? They do say that if one speaks of the devil he shall appear, and as if on cue his mobile buzzed, the screen lighting up to show an unrecognised number.

_Gregory, _

_I should very much like to meet with you again. We have matters to discuss. Anthea will arrange everything. Don't bother replying to this. _

_-MH _

Greg groaned and rolled onto his face. He really couldn't face another hour pretending to be interested in the man. He was just so _dull. _Greg didn't move from that position until the morning, when he was awoken by yet another buzz from his phone. Moaning he pulled his phone out from where it had got stuck between his knees.

_Southbank, 4 miles past Waterloo. Found the Freak. Get here. Now. _

_Sally._

Christ, it was 5AM. Could he not have just one day of paperwork? With normal hours? Just one? He dragged himself off the sofa, pulled his suit jacket and coat back on, and dashed out of the door.

As Greg arrived he saw the imposing figure of Sherlock, not upright and arrogant, but splayed out in a pool of vomit. Unconscious. Greg felt mildly ill, this was nothing he hadn't seen before, but there was something about the vulnerability on the bloke's face, so far from his usual look of reserved disgust. He knew what had happened of course, Mycroft had told him about the cocaine, maybe that wasn't all he did.

The poor bugger stirred slightly as he came to, to feel Greg hoisting him up and into a police car. Still covered in sick, he groaned at the weak early morning sunlight.

"Too bright," he said wincing.

"Damn it Holmes," Greg grumbled, "This has got to stop."

Sherlock looked up at the man, still defiant, somehow ignoring the fact that he reeked of the contents of his stomach, sweat, and Thames water. The bastard had the nerve to smirk at Greg and merely say, "221B Baker Street."

* * *

Mycroft's good mood had of course evaporated as he learnt of his brother's actions. Sherlock had to stop this, he was killing himself. Killing himself in a way that was neither glamourous, nor fast, just slow and excruciating for those who cared for him. He sighed and left the club, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

"Anthea, I need you to find DI Lestrade. I need to speak to him."  
"Of course, sir."  
"The usual place."  
"Naturally sir."

The dial tone rang clear and Mycroft stepped into the waiting car, letting it take him to the only man he wanted to see.

Yes, he was aware that thinking of Gregory in this way was peculiar, and not how one should feel after two conversations, lasting just over an hour in total. But it was entirely true, Mycroft Holmes was entirely besotted with the unfortunate detective.

Greg made his way home that night, having firmly told himself that tonight he would not fall asleep at his desk, and not on the sofa, but in his bed. Possibly next to his wife, although that was unlikely after their last fight. She was gone for good this time, he could feel it. Good riddance.

* * *

He was not three streets away from the Yard when a sleek black car pulled up.

"Detective," a voice came from the passenger seat, not one he recognised, "I trust I don't need to threaten you. Get in the car."

Greg didn't even bother to look disgruntled, he just scrubbed a hand over his face and got into the backseat.

* * *

**Hallo so I'm seeing The Avengers tonight with people because apparently I need to get a social life. I'm going to come clean, I have no idea where I'm going with this. **


	4. Chapter 4

"Gregory!" Mycroft sounded rather too please to see the older man, "How splendid to see you again."

Was it? Okay. Um.

"Yeah," Greg said gruffly, "You too?"

"Yes well I should think so," Mycroft grinned, oh my god he can grin folks, yes you heard it here first, "I wanted to thank you for taking care of my dear brother earlier, he's not best pleased but it's rather better that way wouldn't you agree?"

Greg had to admit, the man was right. From what he'd seen, making Sherlock happy was damn near suicidal at times.

"I…yes?" Greg said, "Well you're welcome at any rate." He smiled as best he could and turned towards the car.

Oh well this was grand. Greg didn't want to be here, ready to leave already. Great. Well. Sod it, he couldn't make it _worse _could he?

"Gregory," Mycroft called, "I said I was going to thank you. Dinner should suffice don't you think?"

"I uh…" Oh good lord Holmes, you have indeed made it worse. You _idiot, _"sure." Greg said after a moment's pause.

Mycroft beamed, "Get in the car then Detective Inspector."

* * *

Greg didn't particularly want to go to dinner with the man for a multitude of reasons.

_He was deathly dull._

_He was insanely hot and Greg didn't know if he'd be able to control himself._

_He was dressed entirely inappropriately._

_Torchwood was on. Although he'd missed half of it already so that doesn't really count._

On the other hand,

_He was insanely hot and Greg didn't know if he'd be able to control himself._

So that was that. He climbed into the car after Mycroft and resigned himself to his fate.

* * *

Mycroft however, had done his research; he knew what to talk about with the man now: TV, a number of bands from The Beatles to Fleet Foxes, and sports.

"So Gregory," he said as they pulled out of the car park, "do you have a favourite Beatle?"

Greg looked surprised at that, success then? "Oh uhm, McCartney, possibly a clichéd answer but have you heard the man?"

Mycroft mulled this over, he had a soft spot for Paul too, he was a simply lovely man. As he told Greg so, the man's jaw dropped.

"You…you've met Paul McCartney? I…how?" Ah. Yes. This might be tricky.

"Well we met a while ago after a concert of his that he needed some very tight security on. Apparently we can't refuse such a national treasure." Mycroft lied quickly, thinking that telling Greg that he'd been Paul's best man would have been more than a little alienating.

"However, I have to say that George was always my favourite," he said, changing the topic slightly, "have _you _heard the man?" he teased gently.

* * *

After half an hour's lively debate about the pros and cons of various Beatles, Greg had to admit he was enjoying himself. This was much better. But oh gosh would the man be hard to resist now.

Greg stood aghast as he looked at the building they had pulled up outside, an airport? Really? Oh this was so stolen from a bad romcom. Or possibly an episode of F.R.I.E.N.D.S. He chuckled at the idea of Mycroft watching such things.

Hold the bloody phone. Romcom. Romantic comedy. Romantic. Oh? Splendid.

* * *

**This took far longer than I intended it to, I've been busy with exams. Sorry guys. **

**Seriously though, thank you for reading this, it makes me damn happy that people do. **

**x**


End file.
